


A Moment of Madness

by scoradh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...Although it would be nice, I think, if I had some sort of message to impart, if I in fact had anything to say when I write. But I don’t. And here is what I say when I have nothing to say.</p><p>Written in March 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moment of Madness

**Author's Note:**

> I feel I should apologise for my nineteen-year-old self.

Padma walked into the common room wearing a distinctly twisted expression. Terry, who assumed she’d just been served an asymmetrical Brussels sprout at dinner or something, didn’t pay her much attention. He was far too interested in his Defence essay, which was giving him the harassed, overworked and underpaid mother of all headaches.

However, when the words ‘I just saw Neville Longbottom in a sarong’ issued from her mouth, Terry had to admit that all her repugnance probably wasn’t vegetable-oriented.

‘Really?’ he asked. ‘What colour?’

‘Blue,’ Padma said, sitting down beside him and pedantically straightening his books. ‘With a pattern of lighter blue - I would hazard a guess that the shade was just off periwinkle - concentric spirals around the hem, with a gambolling dolphin inserted at un-co-ordinated intervals.’

‘You don’t like dolphins, do you?’ Terry remembered.

‘No, and particularly not when they don’t seem to fit into a designated pattern,’ Padma said, frowning fiercely.

‘Oh, that’s Gryffindors for you,’ Terry said. ‘What colour was Parvati’s?’

‘Pink, of course,’ Padma said, pulling her long dark hair around her shoulder and checking to see if every strand was the same length. ‘How did you guess that she was there?’

‘For some reason I had an inkling,’ Terry said. ‘Sarongs are the essence of reckless sartorial choice, and what are our mighty lions but reckless?’

‘There were Slytherins there, too,’ Padma said, ‘but all their sarongs were green.’

‘I can never decide if that is house unity or brainwashed indoctrination,’ Terry mused. ‘The fact that they are both equally strong forces prevents me from deciding which it is that provokes Draco Malfoy into wearing the noxious shade.’

‘It does nothing for his sickly complexion, this is an unequivocal truth,’ Padma agreed. ‘In the spirit of social observation, do you think we should join them?’

‘Where are they mustering - the lake? Don’t tell me - the Squid is involved somewhere.’

‘I believe he - or it - is a primary factor in the sarong parade,’ Padma said. ‘When the sarongs become quite saturated, they flick them at it. Him. But as we are merely impartial onlookers, I don’t believe we must wear them ourselves.’

Terry cocked his head in thought. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. ‘I am sure that your contribution would not be unwelcome.’

Padma actually blushed. ‘Unfortunately, my only sarong is also pink, and I have no desire to be confused with my sister.’

‘Fair enough,’ Terry said. He stuck a quill and parchment in his pocket, in case he needed them, where they joined a small volume of Beckett’s plays, because like most Ravenclaws he brought a book wherever he went. After all, you never knew when you might end up in a vast, library-less waste with nothing to do.

They were joined by Luna on their way out. She was wearing a rather racy bikini top made out of coconut shells, but the effect was diluted by the bright yellow blouse she was wearing underneath. Her sarong was white and appeared to have been hand-embroidered with alpha and omega symbols.

‘Are you joining the revelment?’ she asked solemnly. Terry, who knew Padma got itchy when Luna made up words, placed a restraining hand on her elbow.

‘The onlooker sees most of the game,’ he said, which, for Terry, could be taken as a yes.

They adjourned to the lakeside, where much splashing was being partaken of. It was a hot day, although anyone in Ravenclaw Tower would not have known it, because the windows there were always shaded and a cooling spell enacted (heat made it difficult to concentrate). Terry was sweating by the time he found an attractive grassy knoll to cast himself down upon. Luna drifted off to startle Ron Weasley and Padma went over to her sister to look disapprovingly at her.

Terry drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin upon them. The sun beat down on the back of his neck and Terry contemplated performing a sun-repelling charm, which was a simple adaptation of the spell used by the house elves to keep food cold. However that would have meant losing the heat as well and he was quite enjoying it.

He could see Harry Potter, wearing only red swimming trunks, brandishing a red sarong and looking unfairly brown. His friends were either shooting through the water or trying to hit Harry with their own sarongs, all except Hermione, who was using her substantial mane to shield her book from the flying droplets.

Terry approved of Hermione. She had her priorities right. He felt a bit sorry for her when Ron grabbed her book and chucked it aside in favour of pulling her into an extended and highly energetic kiss. Hermione didn’t look that bothered, mind you, although Terry winced at how the edges of the pages were getting bent.

Terry wasn’t quite sure if he approved of kissing. He and Padma had tried it, of course, just as they’d mastered the most difficult spells together, and experimented with new brands of ink and made a hobby of learning the biggest words in the dictionary. However it just hadn’t seemed to work - not for Terry, at least. He was pretty sure, though, from the way Padma liked to remonstrate at length to Seamus Finnegan, that Padma kissing him might work, in the way discussing that the underlying sexual themes in Jane Austen’s novels with him wouldn’t.

Terry thought that Seamus Finnegan might work for him too, but he also knew that Terry wouldn’t work for Seamus. The only one who possibly would was Harry, but Terry was far too approving of the blinding dynamic between him and Draco Malfoy (in spite of the latter’s colour crimes) to attempt anything that might upset it.

The sun was really pounding into his hair - the curls felt burning hot when he pushed his fingers through them. He glanced around for something to Transfigure into a hat, and his gaze lit upon a fist-sized boulder.

It took a couple of attempts, but Terry at last settled on a straw boater with corks dangling from the brim. He’d been to Australia once and had admired the inherent sensibility of their headwear. Even Scotland inherited flies in summer and Terry was more interested in getting rid of them than looking stylish, something he felt should be left to those more qualified.

Now suitably shaded, he pulled out his book and began re-reading _Waiting for Godot._

‘A stupid hat and a book,’ a voice eventually broke through his deep concentration to say. ‘That’s got to be a Ravenclaw.’

Terry looked up politely. ‘May I help you?’

‘Yeah,’ Draco sneered. ‘Get out of my way.’ He was dripping wet and, as Terry watched, pointedly shook his sodden locks into Terry’s book.

‘You have the whole lawn to traverse,’ Terry pointed out, with impeccable logic. ‘Go around.’

‘No. I want to walk _here_ ,’ Draco said, stepping closer. Terry glanced past him - Crabbe and Goyle were flicking each other with sarongs, but it was nothing that couldn’t be immediately halted in favour of beating Terry to a bloody pulp.

‘Bugger off, Malfoy,’ a third voice, low and dangerous, chimed in. Terry blinked up at Harry, who came closer to drip even more water into Terry’s lap (although inadvertently, Terry supposed).

‘I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you, Potter?’ Draco said, smirking and running his tongue along his bottom lip. He looked like a complacent cat, making Harry a dog - bigger, snarling and with his hackles raised.

‘And I bet you’d love me to hit you into next week,’ Harry said, his gaze not leaving Draco’s face, even in favour of his chest (like Terry’s, for example, which was objectively comparing Draco’s pale slimness with Harry’s brown definition). ‘So we’re in perfect agreement.’

‘As if,’ Draco snorted. ‘I wouldn’t agree with you if you told me the sky was blue.’

‘It’s not, actually,’ Terry supplied helpfully. ‘It’s just the shade registered by the colour receptors in your eyes.’

Both boys looked down at him incredulously. ‘Ravenclaws never know when to shut up,’ Draco snorted.

‘ _You_ should be one, then,’ Harry said. ‘You never stop running your mouth.’

Draco stepped closer to Harry, far too close even for someone spitting arguments at them. Something clicked in Terry’s brain and he smiled a little. Affecting deep absorption in his book, he pretended not to hear Draco breathe, ‘And shagging a Slytherin? What does that make _you_ , Potter?’

His hand was on Harry’s shoulder, the one facing away from the lake. Glancing up between the corks on his hat, Terry caught a truncated glimpse of wet fingers sliding across a tensed collar bone.

‘Tonight?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll leave the Ravenclaws alone now…even if they are pretty.’

‘You’d better,’ Harry said, and in a louder voice, ‘Get back to your dungeon, you slimy git.’

‘Bite me,’ Draco said, and winked, before sauntering off.

Terry turned a page in his book with exaggerated care. He looked up wearing a vague expression at Harry’s uncomfortable cough.

‘Sorry, did you say something?’ he asked. ‘I have a tendency to become quite engrossed in my books and not notice when people are addressing me.’

‘Ah - no worries,’ Harry said, pushing his glasses up his nose and walking away, throwing Terry one perplexed look over his shoulder.

‘That Potter is such a wanker,’ said a new, complaining voice. Terry sighed and wondered if he was ever going to be able to finish a bloody sentence. He closed his book and lay it on the grass beside him.

‘In fact, I believe that masturbatory activities are the norm among young males, particularly as they approach the age of eighteen when their libido peaks. If you are suggesting that Harry engages in such pursuits, I would venture to say that you are correct, but also that it is not a fact that bears public announcement or is even out of the ordinary.’

‘Huh,’ said Zacharias Smith, throwing himself full-length on the grass and beginning to chew a blade of it. ‘I understood everything up to ‘masturbatory’.’

‘Everyone wanks,’ Terry said, attempting patience and finding it not much to his taste. ‘Even you do, probably. So if Harry does you can hardly condemn him.’

‘I wasn’t _condemning_ him because he _wanks_ ,’ Zacharias said, rolling his eyes and nearly swallowing his blade of grass with the effort of doing two things at once. ‘I was _condemning_ him ’cause he’s a _wanker_.’

‘But I just _said -’_ Terry began, and realised Zacharias was grinning.

‘He’s getting off with Malfoy, you know,’ Zacharias commented, and Terry blinked in surprise.

‘How do you know?’

‘What else is there to do in class ’cept watch people?’ Quite a lot, Terry wanted to say, but he was too agog to hear the rest of Zacharias’ reasoning to speak. ‘Malfoy’s always glaring at Potter and Potter pretends not to notice. I mean, all of the time. It’s too - careful.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Terry said.

‘Don’t sound so surprised, you bastard. Hufflepuffs are occasionally guilty of cogitating too.’

‘I wasn’t -’ Terry protested.

‘Yeah, you were,’ Zacharias said, rolling onto his stomach. He drew a blade of grass through his teeth with a thoughtful expression. Terry thought it might be the heat, but there was something about the way Zacharias’ bony wrist met the long curve of his exposed, downy forearm that made him catch his breath. It was a rather pleasant observation, but Terry didn’t like the way it was hijacking his brain.

He determinedly sought for his book, but Zacharias was now on top of it. ‘Could you pass me my book, please?’

‘Huh? Oh. I thought the grass was a bit bumpy.’ Zacharias lifted his hip. ‘There you go.’

Terry was forced to slide his hand under Zacharias’ body to retrieve it. He came to the swift conclusion that Beckett wasn’t worth this much embarrassment on his part.

‘What you reading, then?’ Zacharias snatched the paperback out of his hand just as he was about to stand up and leave.

Terry wasn’t about leave something so precious as a book in the hands of this disconcerting person, so he muttered, ‘Samuel Beckett.’

Zacharias squinted at the cover. ‘He’s Irish, isn’t he?’

‘Was,’ Terry corrected him. ‘Yes.’

Zacharias turned onto his stomach and tossed the book aside. ‘I wouldn’t read anything by an Irishman,’ he announced. ‘Drunken louts is all they are.’

‘How can you _make_ that sort of sweeping generalisation?’ Terry protested.

‘Just like that,’ Zacharias said, shrugging. He had what Terry had once heard described as a bee-stung mouth with a full lower lip that Terry wanted badly to - and Terry was delirious and _leaving._

‘You’re very narrow-minded,’ he informed him.

‘Everyone is,’ Zacharias said. ‘Even broad-minded people - they’re narrow-minded about being narrow-minded.’

Terry gaped at him. Zacharias looked up at him, his blue eyes narrow slits against the sun.

‘Your logic is certainly singular,’ Terry managed, and leaned across him to fetch his book.

Somewhere along the way, though, the heat of Zacharias’ body thrummed through Terry’s robes, and it turned out that his book was a lot farther away than he’d thought, and his cheek was resting against Zacharias’ chin as his hand groped around on the grass.

‘Looking for this?’ Zacharias said lazily, waving the book over Terry’s head.

‘Yes,’ Terry said gratefully, knowing full well that it wasn’t just the sun that had set his cheeks to full-blast glow. He reached up, but Zacharias was too quick for him; the book was spirited away behind his back, leaving Terry grasping at air.

‘Give me back my book!’ he said, starting to feel a rare anger.

‘Nuh-uh. Not yet,’ Zacharias said, sounding highly diverted. ‘Gimme your hat.’

Terry scowled, but books were worth far more than Transfigured hats. He grabbed it off his sweaty curls and shoved it at Zacharias.

‘Australian style,’ Zacharias remarked. ‘Another nation of wankers and sots. You have the oddest tastes, Boot.’

Terry compressed his lips. Ordinarily he would have retorted with a long, detailed and telling argument on just how stupid Zacharias was proving himself to be, but he wasn’t willing to risk sacrificing his book.

Zacharias threw the hat over his shoulder and tapped a finger on his chin, his eyes searching Terry’s face with discomfiting scrutiny. Terry shifted uneasily beneath his gaze.

‘Yeah, that’s better,’ Zacharias decided. Terry made an incredulous face. ‘No, don’t do that to your nose. You’re wrinkling it. Stop, I said. Yes. Good.’

‘My book?’ Terry attempted wearily.

‘All in good time,’ Zacharias said. ‘Lucky for me you Ravenclaws are so attached to ‘em, eh? Otherwise this’d never have worked.’

‘What’s ‘this’?’ Terry said. ‘Book-napping? Racism? Continued and indomitable aggravation of an innocent party?’ Zacharias took hold of one of Terry’s curls and gave an experimental pull. Terry squawked in anger.

‘None of the above,’ Zacharias said, shoving his hand deeper into Terry’s hair to pull him down to Zacharias’ face. Terry had a second of stunned realisation before Zacharias’ hot lips were swiping his own with skilled and delicious efficiency.

It lasted all of two seconds, but the sky seemed to spin dizzily in a different colour when Terry had his mouth back again. He rubbed his eyes, but Zacharias was still there, looking extremely pleased with himself.

‘You - what?’ Terry said with, given the situation, stunning eloquence.

‘You want your book, mate?’ Zacharias said, holding it out. Terry took it. It was slightly warm and the cover was bent in three places.

‘Auhhh,’ Terry tried.

‘More to life than them. You know?’ Zacharias said, standing up and brushing grass off his robes. He sauntered off, leaving Terry staring at his book in a daze.

‘That may very well be a valid assumption,’ he muttered at last. ‘However, I believe I am desirous of firmer evidence before - bloody hell, I’d like to do that again.’

He looked around, noticing with surprise that a setting sun was setting the surface of the lake ablaze. Zacharias was long gone, of course, back to wherever it was Hufflepuffs went at night.

It shouldn’t be too hard to find him again, though. Ravenclaws were skilled at critical path analysis and all that. Not to mention Hufflepuffs were warm and welcoming people, much like a lot of Amazonians tribes on the verge of extinction, and they would hardly deny him the information.

Most importantly of all, they didn’t steal, it was like a tenet of theirs or something - and Zacharias had his hat.

**~fin~**

 

That bloody Defence essay was meant to be going somewhere, I'd swear it.


End file.
